Monday, March 27, 2006



I love it when they send you home after a major surgery with a few Tylenol w/ codeine and some vague instructions about putting ice...on your nuts??? First off - due to my bizarre body chemistry – opiates/Vicodin/Percocet/Anycetdin do NOT work on me unless laid on in massive (bordering toxic) doses. Second off - this is what they don’t tell you about getting a vasectomy: you are a lineman who just got blitzlucky and ran up to block a 54-yard field goal attempt by the NFL’s leading kicker…only he misses the ball and nails you in the ‘nads full fucking force.

…and for two weeks you are trying to live a normal life with two throbbing GRAPEFRUITS dangling between your legs. Needless to say, you also have to “refrain from any form of sexual activity” because 1) duh…it hurts too much, and 2) the little seedsofyourloins are so damn smart that they will jump the gap in your severed vas deferens until the ends seal over.

But eventually, the swelling does go away (slowly), and one starts thinking about resuming “a.f.o.s.a.”…but again…one is not ‘officially’ a certified non-breeder until the Doc sez so. Six weeks after the operation, it’s back to Dr. Chin, and one’s idea of maybe an ultrasound/blood test/something to verify one’s sterility gets laffed at…because there is only one way for this to happen, and it’s the good old-fashioned way, B’s & G’s.

(aside) about a year ago I had jokingly written in an email to an OOMA that I had ejaculated into a baggie in her honor: this was calculated to piss off her current Sig Other who was monitoring her online activity. Ha ha. Make it an art project and prove my lust for her with one day presenting her with a zillion of these things –dated/annotated with which fantasy resulted in the climax/rate ‘em, too. ALL A GAG/NEVER HAPPENED.

But life imitates art (even imaginary art)…’cause I have just been shown into an examining room with a sample container and a…Playboy? How…um…wholesome! No Double D’s? No pix of a naked Jenna Jameson? Do they want me to be in here all day?

Well, the business gets done one way or another, and I walk out into the hallway of this sprawling urology clinic with my container of spunk and…there’s no one there. I go from room to room looking for someone to give my sample to, but everyone seems to have split for lunch. Feeling utterly ridiculous, I do what any humiliated American male would do = put the sample on the receptionist’s desk, write a note…and get the hell out of there.


- glad I did it

- wish I hadn’t done it, ‘cause as a 56-year-old involuntary bachelor, the fantastic but unattached/childless women I now meet are hearing that ROAR-ticking of the old biological clock…and I have just most likely ex’ed myself out of consideration. as previously noted, when it comes to The Mating Dance, i have two left feet...even when i try to get it right, i get it wrong.

- I am now thought of as ‘safe’ by my (few) partners…but there is also one who are SAD about this. My shrink told me that some women (in her opinion – “real women”) NEED/WANT the frisson of the possibility of becoming pregnant to make sex more intimate and intense. I dunno…have really come to appreciate Freud more and more…but I dunno.

I have officially flipped the bird to the first of the biological imperatives I listed last week. I feel free from at least one of the cycles of nature that can cause joy if a child is wanted, pain and misery if the child is not. But it’s now dawned on me that that leaves only the second biological imperative…and there is no operation that can short-circuit that one.

NP: WNYC Brian Lehrer's show

PEEVE DE JOUR: no time no time no time


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